


Painting Constellations

by Florrama



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Fake Dating, Fake Relationship, Food Fight, Romance, fake date
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 12:29:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17766803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Florrama/pseuds/Florrama
Summary: A collection of one shots requested on tumblr!





	1. Food fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inner circle having a food fight (this one is months old lmao)

Really, it’s her fault that it started, but if anyone asked, she’d deny all responsibility and blame Rhys for everything.

Everything had been perfect, completely and utterly perfect, from the moment she’d walked down the isle in her wedding dress that somehow seemed to shine - another dress that Rhys’ mother had made all those years ago - and focused entirely on Rhys, who had grinned after sneakily wiping at his eye. And the reception, the reception had been perfect too; Elain’s flower arrangements were stunning and Nuala and Cerridwen had used starfall splatters to create constellations on the ceiling.

The cake they’d made had taken her breath away, with its dark frosting and the design that made the cake look like a piece of the night’s sky. Feyre, with Rhys’ hand over her own, had cut the cake to the cheers and claps of their guests - except Rhys had chosen that exact moment to give her behind a quick, subtle squeeze. So Feyre had done what any respectable woman would have done.

She grabbed a section of cake with her fingers, turned to face Rhys and, before he could stop her or protest, smeared the cake across his nose and cheek. As soon as he smirked instead of gaped, Feyre knew that she was screwed. Her first reaction was to take a few steps backwards, hands raised in surrender and nervous laughs slipping from her lips. It was in slow motion that she saw his next move. Rhys’ fingers dove into the cake, carefully tearing sponge from cream, before throwing it in Feyre’s direction.

Unfortunately for Rhys, Feyre ducked just in time. And she would have rejoiced, but the grimace on Rhys’ face and the sudden silence was enough to make her realise that she probably should have just taken the cake to the face. One look over her shoulder confirmed all of her worries. Elain had been hit, and Azriel was already making his way over to the cake.

And this is why Feyre currently hides behind an overturned table, one hand holding a lump of cake, and the other stifling giggles that threatened to slip between her fingers.

Many of the guests had decided to leave as soon as they realised that the altercation wasn’t going to be ending quickly, nor peacefully. Nesta had decided to escort the guests out - so she isn’t involved either. Which Feyre is incredibly thankful for. There is no doubt that Nesta would be the most competitive - and ruthless - out of all of them. Even Elain is surprisingly competitive. She’d tried to stay out of it at first, but then Cassian had hit Azriel’s bespoke suit and Elain’s perfectly styled hair in quick succession - and Feyre had quickly decided that she never wanted to get on Elain’s bad side. Ever.

A cupcake whizzes over her head - one of Elain’s making - and splatters onto one of the marble pillars, it’s beautiful dark blue, glittering icing a glorified mess. Feyre pops her head over the table, only to duck back down again in a matter of milliseconds. Rhys doesn’t seem to have quite gotten over the first attack, and is still hunting her like some predator hunts its prey.

Somehow, and she thanks every God possible for this, her dress hasn’t been ruined. There’s a little cake smudged on her neckline, and a tiny blotch on her hem, but it’s nothing miracle workers Nuala and Cerrdiwen won’t be able to fix.

Quickly, without thinking too much of the consequences, Feyre rushes to the closest pillar while launching the cake in the direction of where she last saw Rhys. At the same time, Cassian throws his own projectile - _is that a strawberry?_ Feyre gapes as it flies past her head, _we must have run out of cake_ \- and as soon as Feyre is safely protected by her marble cover, she lets out a loud laugh and sticks her middle finger up in the air - where Cassian can see.

“I thought Illyrians were meant to have good aim?” She taunts, waiting for his response.

Except there isn’t one. In fact, everything seems to have gone completely silent.

Feyre pokes her head around the pillar, only to see everyone gaping - especially Cassian, who even seems scared - in her direction. But their expressions are not directed at her. Their focus lays past her, towards the entry hall. Feyre slowly turns, and as soon as she sees what the problem is, wishes that she could just winnow away and quickly as possible.

Nesta stands in the door way, fists clenched at her side and a taught smile gracing her lips. But her eyes scream pure fury. A strawberry slides down her once-immaculate pale pink dress. It’s almost comical, how Feyre can practically hear Cassian gulp.

“Nes-” He starts, but stops when Nesta plucks the squashed strawberry from her dress and drops it to the floor with a bored expression. Her eyes are still screaming a thousand types of anger, though, and Feyre finds herself slowly slinking further away from Nesta and her fury. It doesn’t matter how many beasts she’s fought - Amarantha, Hybern, her own inner demons - Nesta is still the scariest being she’s ever encountered.

“Cassian, my love, won’t you do me the favour of coming over here?” She purrs, and it all kicks off again. All at once, Feyre is dashing towards Rhys and grabbing his hand to pull him behind another overturned table. Azriel pulls Elain into his arms and attempts to blend into the shadows at the corner of the room. In essence, they’re all leaving Cassian to take the brunt of it on his own. It’s so silent that Feyre hears when Nesta’s weapon of choice hits Cassian’s chest.

And Cassian, silly, stupid, courageous Cassian, doesn’t know when to step down from a challenge. It turns into a match between Cassian and Nesta - and Feyre is willing to bet all of her money that Nesta will win. But she doesn’t have the chance to even put her money in the betting pool, because Rhys is whispering sweet nothings into her ear and describing the luxurious guest suite on one of the upper floors. It only takes one kiss to the underside of her jaw to persuade Feyre that there are better things to be doing than having food fights.

Namely, consummating their marriage.


	2. Love at first sight

The glass counter is cool and sleek beneath her fingertips as she taps a continuous rhythm. 1,2,3,4. 1,2,3,4. It keeps her grounded, keeps her from being swallowed up by the depth of his gaze.

Which is ridiculous, considering they’ve just met. She has to remind herself that he’s an actor. He convinces people for a living. Like a conman.

A very, incredibly attractive conman.

 

“Absolutely not.” His eyebrows pinch together, as if he can’t believe someone is refusing him, and Feyre purses her lips. “Go fall in love with someone, for real.”

“I’ll pay you.” As soon as he speaks Feyre resist the urge to chuck the cloth in her other hand at his perfectly sculpted cheekbones. She doesn’t need his charity, and certainly doesn’t want it.

Even if a little more money would be nice. She could buy Elain those boots she wanted, and Nesta the coat she’d been eyeing up.

“No means no-”

 

“Let me set the scene for you.” Saying no is incredibly tempting, but he’s got that pleading look in his eyes again and as much as she continuously warns herself that he’s an award winning actor, there’s a little of her that wants to hear what he has to say. She’s wanted to be a protagonist in a story, anyway.

“So I come into this bar, having a terrible evening, needing a drink, and I see you - the bartender - and you smile my way, and it’s the most beautiful smile I have ever seen.” The words may be false but still they leave flutters in her stomach. Feyre cant help but watch what she can only call his pretty boy mouth. She scowls.

Stupid hormones.

 

“And it’s love at first sight.”

 

“Love at first sight doesn’t exist.” He actually looks stunned. “What?”

 

He leans across the counter, peering into her eyes with an analytical gaze that makes her feel like she’s some sort of experiment. He’s trying to figure her out. Her cheeks flush.

“It definitely exists.”

 

Her eyes flit across the plane of his shoulders and chest, clearly muscled and toned, and rest on the sharp angle of his jaw. For a moment she thinks of his most recent movie - some hot romance - and can’t help but imagine herself in the female lead’s position. His lips on her neck, his deft fingers tugging at her jeans. Feyre’s stomach warms. Love at first sight doesn’t exist, but lust certainly does.

“And how would you know? It’s not as if you’ve been in love. If you had, you wouldn’t be here.”

 

He nods in acceptance, but it doesn’t halt the satisfied grin stretching across his lips.

 

“Well, when I first laid eyes on you in your delicious black ensemble, I heard wedding bells in the distance.”

Feyre scoffs, refusing to look down at her uniform self consciously. It’s a black, silken blouse tucked into black trousers. It’s nothing ugly, but it certainly isn’t delicious.

“Look, I meant it when I said no-”

 

“Please. This isn’t for fun, as much as I already adore your company. I’m tired of my image in the media, even if it is partially self-imposed. I’m not a bad person, and I certainly don’t enjoy breaking hearts. I just need to prove that there’s more to me.” _Actor. Actor. He’s an actor, Feyre._ But the slight waver in his voice and the way his throat bobs slightly is enough to make Feyre falter. She also blames his good looks.

“Fine. Fine. I’ll help. Stop smiling like that - I can’t decide whether I prefer your smug or genuinely pleased.” She automatically searches for a pen beneath the counter, and plucks a napkin from the pile in the corner. “This is my number, we can talk details later.”

“You won’t regret this. I promise.” Feyre raises her eyes to meet his and pauses. The genuine tilt to his lips is enough to make air catch in her throat, and the simple adoration in his gaze dries her mouth.

But it’s the stutter of her heart that makes her regret her decision already.

Because boy is she in trouble.


	3. Spiceyyyyy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Request: Hey I don't have any specifics, but I could use some smutty Feysand if you don't mind! ♥️

There’s hands on her waist and pressure everywhere; something flat, hard, against her back, a firm weight pressed to her front, hair tugged and lips swollen. She can’t breathe. She doesn’t want to. Breathing means coming up for air, breathing means breaking away.

She’s waited too long for this moment, and she refuses to wait a moment longer.

Her hands explore in turn. Nails drag across firm ridges and curves. She imagines her teeth in their place, her tongue tracing dark ink across bronze skin - a path, mapped out especially for her. She’d follow it religiously. X marks the spot.

There’s a sudden chill across her skin. Goosebumps rise as her blouse falls to the floor. His hands are responsible. Teeth bites into the soft skin of her neck and Feyre grasps for his chest, pulls at his shirt. Fabric tugs from his skin with a soft whisper, joining her blouse on the laminate floor, as he gently pushes her. 

They aren’t moving quickly enough.

She’s in his arms, gently deposited on the bed - so gently it makes her ache. A strand of light cuts across his features. It emphasises the cut of his jaw, the longing on his eyes. Air stutters out of Feyre’s throat. That look alone could thaw a frozen river, melt chocolate. Feyre feels like chocolate, unwrapped and savoured like an Easter egg. 

Barriers disappear and dissolve. The tension, heavy and raw and solid, is broken when a soft giggle slips from Feyre’s lips at the sight of Rhys getting caught in his trousers. He laughs with her. She aches some more. How is it possible that a man can heat her to the core and make her laugh all at the same time?

His eyes catch on her smile - slightly crooked two-front-teeth, bitten lips, subtle scar on her chin. He his entranced. Fingers trace the dip of her cupid’s bow, tease the soft pillow of her bottom lip. Her teeth bite down. Their eyes meet.

They’re back to being vicious.

Everything is pure: the promises whispered into her neck, the tenderness of hair being tucked being tucked behind her ear, the constant question in his eyes.

Her back arches. She’s being played like a piano - and she sings. His forehead is against hers, held in place by the fingers that wind in his hair. Their eyes never break, even when a pure tsunami rips through Feyre’s body. His groan is the most delicious sound she has ever head. She wants to swallow it, never forget the taste of it on her tongue.

A smile, wide and bright and glowing breaks out on his lips.

This is where they are meant to be.

Forever and always.


	4. Practice makes perfect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 52: practice kissing so it looks natural in front of other people
> 
> 106: I don’t want to stop kissing you

A single drop of rain runs down the large window, leaving a slightly blurred trail, before another follows, and another, and another.

“Staring off into the rain is a little dramatic, Feyre Darling.”

Her teeth clench and Feyre keeps her gaze straight forward. She focuses on the silver and black cars stuck in traffic, on the loud murmur of the crowds behind them, on the sound of the water from the fountain splashing against the wet stone. She focuses on anything but the stupidly attractive hulk of mass beside her. As she shifts closer, trying to get her attention, Feyre catches a glimpse of his reflection in the glass. No one’s jaw is that chiselled. No one’s.

“It was a disaster.”

“I wouldn’t say disaster”

“Rhys.” Feyre finally looks up at him, arms crossed and teeth leaving red marks in her bottom lip. “It’s not your family that we’re trying to fool. Nesta can see through anything. Anything. She saw through Tamlin’s facade, so she will definitely see through this shamble.”

“We just need practice.”

“Practice?” She can feel her heart racing, and her palms are finally beginning to sweat. A few people look round towards them, and Feyre, thoroughly embarrassed, lowers her voice. “Rhys, we’re not teenagers. I’m not inviting you over to my flat so we can practice kissing.”

“Feyre, calm down.”

“I just want them to stop worrying about me. After Tamlin, they’re so scared for my well being and I thought that being with someone, being in a stable relationship with that extra support would help.” She grimaces. Now she sounds like a teenager, venting about how much she wants a boyfriend.

There is a whisper by her cheek: fingers gently brushing the hair away from her face, stroking down to the ends. A soft sigh slips from her lips. How is it that one simple action calms her so much? His hand slips more firmly against her skin, starting at her cheek, before moving round to cup the back of her head. His fingers now tangle in her hair.

Feyre knows what he’s planning.

She also knows there’s no way she’s going to stop him.

“Do you trust me?” How could she not, with his silver tongue and velvet words, with the way his fingers are working magic at the back of her scalp, and how it’s only been a few weeks and he’s already making her forget it’s fake.

She really doesn’t want it to be fake.

“Of course I do.” Her voice comes out a little too breathy, but she doesn’t have time to think about it, because Rhys is slanting his lips against hers and Feyre thinks she’s forgotten how to breathe.

This is nothing like their kiss half an hour ago.

All the different sensations at once build to create some sort of crescendo that Feyre can only call euphoric. Her hands have found their way to his shoulders and hair, digging into the soft strands that she finds herself admiring so often.

By the time Feyre finally pulls away - barely, less than an inch of space between them - she is completely out of breath. Her legs are weak, and she is still completely craving his touch. She prepares herself to move away, let go, release her hold on his hair and his muscled arm.

But then “again” slips from his lips, throaty and heavy and pleading and Feyre doesn’t think twice. They’re moving behind a pillar, out of the view of every other shopper in the shopping centre, pressing against each other as closely as possible.

Feyre decides that next time, they are definitely practicing at her flat.


End file.
